For a couple of years now, I’ve been watching a pair of mute swans who return to Lake Canonchet as faithfully as the seasons themselves. On the day of the storm, I happened to be driving by just as winter decided to remind us who’s in charge.
The snow was relentless. Not the heavy, storybook kind, but fine and insistent, easily sculpted into wisps and drifts by the wind. The lake had transformed into a frozen version of its summertime self, that familiar avian gathering place reduced to silence and ice. The swans, along with two ducks, were confined to a small, stubborn patch of open water. A tiny island of possibility in a sea of no.
They didn’t panic.
They didn’t thrash or protest.
That patch of water was the equivalent of being told your entire world had shrunk to the size of a closet. Everything else off limits. And yet, there they were, calm and composed.
Then one swan tipped forward, disappearing beneath the surface to grab a mouthful of submerged greens. A moment later, the other followed. Life, apparently, was still on schedule. Gotta eat.
That’s when it hit me.
Nature doesn’t rage against change. It adjusts. It accepts the storm, works within the constraints, and finds nourishment where it can. The natural order doesn’t waste energy wishing for yesterday. It adapts, endures, and moves forward.
Meanwhile, I was driving home with groceries, mentally rehearsing contingencies. Remembering the Blizzard of ’78 like it happened yesterday. Preparing. Planning. And of course, carrying a camera, because sometimes reflection sneaks up on you when you least expect it.
This image has stayed with me as a reminder that our world is always changing. What feels open and expansive one day can suddenly become smaller, tighter, and more uncertain the next. And when that happens, we have a choice.
We can resist.
Or we can adapt.
We can bob and weave, find our footing, and discover that happiness isn’t about the size of our world, but how we move within it. Sometimes the best response to a storm is simple. Eat a salad. Take a breath. Be thankful for what remains unfrozen.
Thankfulness, I’ve learned, is a wonderful way to travel.
Because storms, too, are part of the journey.
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